Memories are a Funny thing
by Katsushika Kahori
Summary: Semi-trucks and memory loss. What about this was a typical meeting of two countries? However Arthur would not be taken by surprise again! WRITE ME REVIEWS PLEASE! :D
1. Emily Dickinson was Never Your Strength

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sorry to everyone who wishes I did. :] (cause don't I just make everything better? Wahahaha) Also… Not sure how far I'm gonna go with this one. I have some other ideas I want to run with at the moment. Tell me what you think~**

He slammed the door open and ran into the front yard. Arthur ran after him, yelling various, obscene things.

"Alfred, you great oaf, _wait!_" It came out rather breathlessly; possibly do to the sudden, intense run they were both in the middle of.

"Are you kidding me? I come all this way only to have you drag _that _back up to throw in my face?" Alfred grimaced over his shoulder, still jogging easily. "Why the hell can't we just get along?" His feet made crunching noises as they met the gravel of the drive.

"How the hell do you expect us to? We're much too different!" Arthur argued, miraculously keeping pace.

"Friends don't have to be the same." Alfred said sadly, finally coming to a stop near the end of the ridiculously long drive as it petered out into deep, green woods. "We don't always have to agree to be friends."

Arthur froze mid step and stared curiously at the pursued. Alfred's face was contorted into a mournful expression, hands dangling lifelessly at his sides. Just minutes earlier, in the middle of their discussion he had suddenly jumped up and bolted from the kitchen telling Arthur where to shove it and why did it always have to end up like this?

"I don't always want to fight with you. Seriously, why can't we just hang out and I dunno, play cards or write poetry or something?"

Arthur stifled a snort at the suggestions and smiled. "Alfred. _You _want to write poetry?" he couldn't imagine the boy's attention span lasting long enough to _name_ a poem, much less _write_ one.

Alfred shrugged, still looking desperate. "Anything but getting yelled at by you. I'm sick of it."

Arthur frowned. Did he yell that much? "Alfred I don't always yell at you." He crossed his arms in what he hoped was a domineering fashion. It wasn't like him to be so taken aback by something; he'd been fearless not two centuries ago. Where had his pirate attitude and flippant nature gone?

"You _do._" Alfred shook his head slowly. "That's _all_ you do. Yell at me, get mad, act annoyed. The list goes on and on. Should I continue?"

Arthur felt his face flushing in anger. How… how could he think that? "I- I can't believe you would dare say that to me." He clenched his hands. Didn't Alfred remember all the times he'd come home and read bedtime stories, or made him dinner, or showed him stolen treasures? "You can just sod off until you learn to- to read the atmosphere better than a child!" If he had stopped to think he would have realized that it was in fact he who was acting the part of child but that concept was far past recognition for his overheated brain.

The hurt look on Alfred's face was enough to instantly make Arthur regret his harsh words however. Really, he hadn't meant it truly. Alfred may be a little dense once in a while but Arthur knew he wasn't the completely daft fool everyone took him for. 'A genius always presents himself as a fool', Alfred had once quoted to him.

"Alfred, I-" Arthur was cut off in his apology as a particularly large truck swerved across the far lane and smack into Alfred at at least seventy miles an hour. Arthur stood there, mouth agape, approximately six seconds before he ran forward towards the crumpled form that was Alfred.

"Alfred! Alfred, oh my dear lord! Oh god, Alfred! Alfred!" He fell down beside the unconscious form and tentatively placed a hand on his chest. After a few heart pounding seconds he breathed a sigh of relief as he felt a slight rise and fall under his hand. What would he have done if Alfred hadn't been breathing? How could he have lived with himself if the last thing he'd ever said to this dear creature was something so against how he really felt? He smiled blindingly, high on the feeling of joy from the knowledge that Alfred was alive to continue to annoy the daylights out of him every other day.

"Uhm, dude, what're you doing?"

The voice startled Arthur back into the present and he glanced down to meet confused, wide, blue eyes.

"Oh, Alfred! You're awake already! Good heavens, I thought you'd be out cold for at least 10 minutes!" He exclaimed in surprise.

"Uhm, like I said, what're you doing?" Alfred asked in a puzzled voice, gazing up uncertainly. "And do you think maybe you could get your hand off my chest? Who are you anyway?"

Arthur's hand flashed back to his side in a second, his face acquiring what could be considered quite an adorable blush; however, this last connotation only pertained to those who knew him and unfortunately, if appeared as though Alfred no longer did.

"Wwwha-what do you mean 'what am I doing'?" Arthur stuttered. "Of course I'm bloody checking to see if there's still life in this idiotic body of yours!" He growled angrily before standing up and brushing the knees of his pants off. "What the hell did you _think _I was doing?"

"Well, gee, I dunno. Coulda been anything; there's lots of old perverts out there nowadays you know." Alfred countered, standing as well.

Arthur was lost for words and so, stood, mouthing nonsensical words for a moment, staring at Alfred in shock. What in the holy hell did _that_ mean? A pervert? Him? How could Alfred make such accusations?

"Hey, I'm just trying to preserve my virginity, you know what I mean?" Alfred paused for a moment, rubbing a hand across his chin in thought. "Well, I suppose I'm still a virgin? I guess I don't really know seeing as I can't remember anything." He turned to stare expectantly back at the still stunned-silent Arthur.

"You don't… know who you are? You don't know who _I _am?" he asked astounded. How in the world was that possible?

"If I knew who I was would I be questioning my own virginity?" Alfred joked with a smile.

Still as vulgar and stupid as he always was; but that mean that his memories were just locked away right? There had to be a way to get them back. It was imperative. Arthur cringed at the idea of having to explain the last 200 some years to Alfred. No doubt it would be painful and possibly bloody knowing how Alfred liked to delegate…

He was cut short in his musings by the image of Alfred wandering cheerfully down the street away from the house.

"_Hold it!_" Arthur yelled at the top of his lungs. "Where do you think _you're_ going?"

"Uh, towards town?"

"Oh no you don't. If you get away now I'll never hear the end of it!" And with that Arthur ran forward and grabbed his collar.

"You _are _a pedo-rapist! I knew it!" Alfred cried while struggling.

"I most certainly am not." Arthur huffed, dragging the wiggling load back to the house. "And even if I was a pedophile it most certainly would not count for you. You are over 200 years old for God's sake."

This statement seemed to silence the former country and he remained complacent all the way through the still open doorway. Once inside however, he threw his weight to the left and broke free, hopping a few feet away and leaning against the Victorian era decorated wall. Arthur lay where he'd been tossed, much like a bag of potatoes. From here it was quite easy to see the fine cherry wood flooring that he's had installed 78 years ago; jeez, had it really been that long already?

"Over 200 years?" Alfred asked eyes wide. "So you're not only a rapist, but you're crazy and delusional too? Oh man, I just hit the jackpot." He sighed, running a hand over his face and peering out between two fingers. "You're not serious are you? I mean, tell me you're kidding."

Arthur sat up, crossing his legs and arms. "I find it entirely disappointing and irritating to have to inform you that I am, in fact, not kidding in the least. You _are _over 200 years old. I would think I would know; I'm the one who raised you." He paused for a response, which came in the form of Alfred sliding down the wall to slump on the floor at Arthur's feet.

"And now you're my dad. Great."

Arthur bristled at the statement. So Alfred thought that he wouldn't be a good father? "I'll have you know that I wasn't your father, as detrimental as having a father figure seems to have been. I was your brother."

Alfred raised his head to stare in disbelief at the man in front of him. "You?" He croaked. "Oh good fucking lord," and dropped his head back onto the floor with a resounding clunk.

When his hand came up and started to doodle on the grain surface Arthur glared at the back of the prick's head. What the hell was he supposed to do now? This idiot had had his memories smashed out of him by a semi-truck. Not to mention the mystery of the whole situation. Since when could countries be damaged by such meager forces? Arthur had seen Alfred take much worse directly to the face in the last few wars and still just jump up raring to go. How had a measly semi-truck done this much damage?

Although, thinking on it logically now, his earlier panic had been extremely silly. He groaned silently; what had he been thinking reacting so embarrassingly?

"You honestly don't remember _any_thing?" He asked leaning down over Alfred's prone figure.

"If I knew would I still be laying on your floor?" Came the muffled response. Alfred raised his head. "Look dude, as soon as I-" he broke off, staring at Arthur.

"What?" The former asked irritatedly.

The question seemed to break the strange atmosphere and Alfred scoffed, looking away. "Nothing. Just thought for a second you looked kinda nice…"

"What in the bloody hell does _that _mean?"

"Seemed for a second like you actually cared is all." Alfred muttered, turning away. "You didn't yell for once."

Arthur froze; hadn't Alfred been saying something like that before? Something about him yelling too much… what had he been talking about? Since when did they ever get along? Why did he suddenly want them to be friends?

"Do you think I yell a lot?" He asked earnestly, sticking his face in the others. "Does it bother you?"

Alfred stared, wide eyed, before blushing and shoving Arthur lightly away. Though no longer in the loop of knowing he was a country Alfred still undoubtedly had his former strength. Arthur rubbed his shoulder where it had hit the wall; there was no way it wasn't leaving a slight bruise. He smiled ruefully, maybe that would convince Alfred.

"I can't say as to whether you yell _all_ the time or not seeing as I've never met you before, but I'd have to say yes. You yell _way too much._"

Arthur's mouth dropped open.


	2. Proper Grammar's a Hard Thing to Come By

_Chapter Two (Proper Grammar's a Hard Thing to Come By)_

**(I still own nothing ; ]P)**

"You honestly think that then?" Arthur asked hollowly, staring through the wall into the nether regions.

"Yeah, I do."

"No, no I meant your… previous self. Your real self or whatever the hell I'm supposed to call it, you, I mean, oh for the love of everything sane." Arthur muttered, failing in his attempt to discover a good thing to call the Alfred with memories. "What the bloody hell am I supposed to call you now? I suppose Alfred is as good as anything. I mean you _are _him after all…"

"So, supposing I _am _Alfred, an' I guess I don't see any reason to doubt that seeing as I don't remember one way er the other… what was I telling you before?" Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, some bollocks about my yelling far too much for your liking." Arthur waved a hand dismissively. "I honestly didn't pay it much mind; you tend to be complaining all the time no matter what I do. The bigger question is what to do now? We clearly can't just have you living a normal life. Not to mention the fact that when your eightieth birthday passes you by and you still look exactly the same there will be much need for explanation…"

"Hold it, hold it!" Alfred exclaimed raising a hand. "So, you're just gonna plough on through without stopping to consider how this makes _me _feel?"

Arthur stopped in his tracks and stared incredulously at the other man. "You want to talk about how this makes you _feel_?"

"Well, sure. Why not? It seems like I had something to complain about earlier too. Why not start there?" Alfred grinned.

"Alfred, I do not have the time to stop and consider how this '_makes you feel_'. If you hadn't grasped it yet, you are a very important 'person'-" here he made quotes in the air, "-and we have to get your memories back as quickly as possible."

"I don't wanna."

"Excuse me?"

"I said I don't wanna. I wanna talk about how I feel." Alfred crossed his arms in mock of Arthur's and stuck his lower lip out. "You better listen this time."

"Oh? And how the holy hell am I supposed to listen? You don't even remember what it was you wanted to say the first time!" Arthur shot up from his spot on the floor and took a few steps towards Alfred.

"What do you mean?" Alfred poked a finger in his ear and gave it a twirl. "'Course I know what I was talking about. It was me saying it in the first place right?"

Arthur felt his face contorting into a scowl as he stared at the smug smirk that was plastered all over Alfred's visage. There was no comeback to that statement. He sighed and massaged his temples. "All right. Let's hear it then."

Alfred cracked a grin and jumped up. "Well first off I have to ask what we were talking about…?"

Arthur grimaced and glanced down at the floor. He knew this had been coming, blast it. "Er, well, we were discussing foreign policy actually. And how he, er, _you_ tend to be a little bit _too_ friendly with… certain countries."

Alfred cocked his head to the side in confusion. "Ok, wait. I was wrong. First off I need you to explain what our jobs are… 'Cause I'm drawin' a blank here."

"You and I are countries. That is to say we're representations of countries. More specifically the UK and US." Arthur paused here, waiting for some kind of response.

"Uhm, so I'm the…" Alfred blinked. "The…?"

"Take a stab at it, you bloody twit. Which do you _feel_ like?" Arthur growled, throwing Alfred's previous phrasing in his face.

"Well, I definitely don't feel like a foreigner! Oh, wait…"

"Yes, yes. Isn't self-discovery just a blast." Arthur replied sarcastically. "Now that that's out of the way, you should know there are others. I mean country personifications." He rolled his eyes. "They're not the most stimulating of company but they'll do in a pinch. Not to mention they're the only ones that stick around for more than a few decades." Here he trailed off and turned a hard stare to the front door.

"Wait, wait!" Alfred threw his hands up. "So… how old are you?" He widened his eyes and seemed to be trying to see through to Arthur's soul.

"Physically, I appear to be somewhere in the age group of a twenty-three year old." He waved a hand noncommittally. "Literally I'm more in the century group. Roughly 1600 years I think?"

Alfred's mouth dropped open and he ran a hand through his hair. "Wow, that's… that's _old_."

Arthur rolled his eyes again.

"So, that means I'm pretty old too, huh?"

"Hardly, moron." Arthur scoffed. "You're a child compared to everyone. Only, what, two hundred and thirty?"

Alfred's eyes, if possible, grew even wider. "Wait, how did you know that off the top of your head?"

"Is it so weird to know your birthday?" Arthur muttered quickly, blushing crazily. "I would have thought you'd be glad that I did. You're always harping on and on that I come to your blasted 'birthday parties' after all."

"Hey that's right! So it'd be on the fourth right?"

"You're accepting this awfully easily." Arthur said suspiciously. "Why is that?"

Alfred shrugged. "Well, if you disagree with the crazy person and upset them, they're more likely to hurt you right?" He grinned mischievously.

Arthur clenched his fists, arms trembling. "I am NOT crazy." He said loudly. "So how exactly am I supposed to prove this to you then?"

"Oh, I dunno. What can we do?" Alfred asked shrugging, still grinning.

He wasn't going to believe any piece of evidence Arthur could produce, no matter how old or authentic… This self important idiot still acted as though the bloody world revolved around him even thinking that he was simply another human! Such arrogance; it was incomprehensible. And to just make the whole situation that much better, he was treating Arthur as though he were addled in the head. Oh, the mockery.

Suddenly an evil idea flirted its way across his mind and he smiled. Alfred, upon seeing the smile backed away a step. Arthur turned on his heal and headed for the staircase. If this failed to make its point then Alfred truly was the idiot of the century.

"Well, if you want proof then follow me." And with that he took the steps two at a time.

Alfred spent all of four seconds debating and then jogged to catch up.

Once in the attic, Arthur began rummaging through old, dust covered boxes, muttering angrily to himself. Alfred took the time to take in his surroundings in closer detail. The attic itself seemed normal enough; it was the things crammed unceremoniously into it that begged the observer's attention. The sun cascading through the small, high placed windows threw light in a way that you couldn't ignore the dust motes swirling slowly around the mysterious packing cases.

Cardboard boxes made up the majority of the content but as it went farther and farther back they were in more and more distressed states until finally becoming what appeared to be old wooden chests. These chests were also covered in dust, though this dust wasn't just a light covering like that found on rarely visited old memories. This dust was engraved into the very wood itself; highlighting the crevices, cracks, and wood grain patterns of the boards. The leather that held the chests closed had long since dried and cracked. Alfred had the feeling that were he to reach out and touch it it would crumble beneath his fingertips.

Just as he was about to test this theory however, Arthur yelled his name and he jumped, turning and scrambling back towards the front of the attic.

Arthur stood framed in the hall light with what appeared to be a musket in his hands, an evil grin on his face. Alfred swallowed loudly.

"So Alfred," he began, weighing the musket casually, "who should be the one to get shot?"

Alfred stared at him in shocked silence; was this guy serious? "Dude, that's… Uhm, that's not so great an idea you know?" He shuffled his feet nervously. He'd definitely made the wrong choice. He'd chosen to follow this insane guy up into his attic and now he had a gun pointed at him. Why had he done this to himself?

"Oh, I find it a perfectly dandy idea myself." Arthur said cheerfully, though Alfred caught the hard edge to his voice. This was not the voice of a twenty-three year old man; this was the voice of someone who'd seen a hard life, someone who knew how to rule. Oh, for the love of God, he was starting to believe this crazy bullshit himself!

"I-I-I-" His voice chose that moment to cut out and he was left standing like a mute, eyes wide, terrified out of his skull.

Inexplicably Arthur's expression softened and he smiled gently. "I'm sorry Alfred. I keep forgetting you're not your usual boisterous self." He chuckled. "Me it is then."

He turned the musket to the side, aiming it at his middle and reached for the trigger.

"_WAIT_!" Alfred lunged forward. "No, seriously don't! It's ok, don't shoot yourself!" He couldn't really place a finger on what it was that made him move, this would have been the perfect way to escape his captor but, somehow, he just couldn't bring himself to allow a man, even this man (_especially _this man?) to shoot himself right in front of him. What kind of hero was he if he didn't even try to help?

Too late.

The ring of the shot echoed around the small, confined attic and finally, after a lifetime, settled into a heavy silence. Alfred's eyes flew open. There in front of him stood Arthur, musket at his side, a deep red stain making its way across the entire front of his shirt.

Arthur glanced up. "It's a shame really. This was one of my better shirts too." He laughed and then crumpled to the floor.

Alfred gasped (not like a girl…) and ran forward. Dropping to his knees he reached tentatively towards the body and grasped a handful of sweater. Pulling, he propped Arthur up on his knees and stared at his closed eyes. Closed meant they weren't dead right?

"There's no need to hyperventilate." The voice was low, almost raspy.

Alfred jumped and Arthur cursed loudly at being thrown around so forcefully.

"Holy SHIT." Alfred took a deep breath. "Holy _SHIT_ shit shit… you're not dead!"

"Well of course not you idiot." Arthur said angrily, hand to his stomach. "Why would I have shot myself if I was going to die?"

"Oh my God! What am I thinking?" Alfred exclaimed. "You have to go to the hospital! What th-! Hurry! Uhhh!"

"What are you freaking out about now?"

"Gut wounds don't kill right away~!" Alfred wailed, throwing his hands over his head in anguish. How could he have been such an idiot?

"I'm not going to die no matter what, you twit," was the irritated retort. "I just couldn't aim any better…"

"Wait. Then why use that musket?" Alfred asked, completely sidetracked from the current emergency and glancing over at said musket where it still lay discarded on the ground.

"Damn my sentimentality." Arthur muttered darkly. "That was… Oh, for fuck's sake! That was the musket I used during the revolution all right?" He buried his face in his hands at the admission.

Alfred blinked. "You fought in that?"

"It was my country. Of course I did."

"Way to go the extra mile." Alfred said lifelessly. "But! I'm not paying attention! You're still gonna die! We have to-!"

He was cut off by Arthur sitting up suddenly. He grimaced and wrapped his arms around his middle again.

"I'm going to have to wrap this up. Damn, I forgot how much musket balls sting."

When he stood up shakily and made his way to the door, turning to ask if Alfred would be accompanying him Alfred lost it.

"_So you're really immortal_?"

"There's no need to shout you imbecile! But yes, I am. And so are you for that matter. We all are. How could we die when our country still exists?"

Alfred leaned heavily against the doorframe and took a deep, ragged breath. "So… it's true…?"

Arthur nodded and also leaned against the opposite wall.

"But why go to such extremes?" Alfred asked nervously, glancing up from under his eyelashes. "I mean… why not just a cut or something?"

"We don't heal noticeably. The rate is accelerated somewhat but nothing you'd see instantly. Obviously I couldn't have kept you here for the day or two it would have taken to heal. I needed something believable and instant." Arthur laughed. "So I grabbed the musket."

"You're insane. You know that right?"

Arthur laughed again, louder. "What a strange thing it is to see you reacting with common sense!"

Alfred sighed. This was the worst day he could remember.

**Reviews? Yes? :]**


	3. Sutures and Forests

_Chapter Three (Sutures and Forests)_

**(If I owned this beautiful piece of work then I'd be rich, have no free time, and be an even bigger history nerd than I am now. :D)**

"Are you sure you're ok dude?" Alfred asked. "You look pretty pale."

They'd moved into the bathroom in order to better stem the flow of blood and Alfred had found a comfortable perch on the ceramic tub.

"Of course I look pale you barmcake. I've been bleeding steadily for ten minutes. Any normal human would have passed out by now."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Right. A _normal _human."

"Oh, now you _don't _believe me?" Arthur turned from the sink, hands bloody, still trying to tie up the bandage and raised an eyebrow.

"I never said that." Alfred muttered slowly, lolling his head back to stare at the tiles of the ceiling. "But it's still pretty unbelievable in general."

"I must say you're taking it very well." Arthur said grinning.

Averting his eyes Alfred stood up quickly and grabbed the bandages out of the others unsteady hands and turned him around. There was a faint sound of surprise but otherwise no visible signs of opposition. Alfred unwound the sloppily done up gauze and slowly reached around to begin rewrapping it properly this time.

"You know you should probably get this sewn up." He muttered thoughtfully staring at the angry bullet hole against the smooth, pale skin. His fingers were about to make contact, an almost slow stroking motion when Arthur's voice stopped him.

"How do you know what you're doing? I thought you didn't remember anything?" He glanced over his shoulder curiously.

Lowering his eyes, refusing to make contact, Alfred continued to hover his fingers over the blood stained flesh. "Oh, so I've done this before?"

"Well, yes, unfortunately. More than I'd like to admit during WWII."

In surprise at the unexpected explanation Alfred's hand twitched forward, accidently landing directly over the wound. Arthur jerked and hissed, grimacing at the burning sensation running up his side.

Alfred jumped back, hands up. "I'm sorry! I'm real sorry!"

Arthur sighed, wrapping an arm around his middle. "No, no, I was just surprised."

Neither moved for a moment; each staring at the other unsure of what to do. Slowly, however, the tension and awkward atmosphere drained away and Arthur visibly relaxed.

"You were a good ally." He broke the silence with a soft smile.

Alfred felt his face heat up and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Don't 'spose you did this for me…" When there was no response after a few moments he glanced up to find Arthur staring at him solemnly.

"Yes… I did." He sighed. "More times than I'd like to remember."

"So if you shot me right now… would I die? Would I bleed out like I'm supposed to?"

Arthur blanched, a hand reaching out to grasp the counter for support, going, if possible, even paler. "No. No of course you wouldn't." He said forcibly. "Not from that. You wouldn't die."

"I was just wonderin'." Alfred said lightly, attempting to ease the mood. "Sorry I brought it up." He reached forward and gently loosened Arthur's grip on the counter. "Come 'ere, I'll fix you up since I seem to know how anyway. Might as well put the talent to good use."

A short search later found Arthur in a chair, Alfred kneeling next to him, cotton swab, disinfectant, and needle in hand.

"I'm telling you. This isn't necessary. Just wrap it up, it'll heal."

"Nope. We're gonna do this right!" He grinned. "Wouldn't want everyone else to think I took a swing at you. Besides… you don't want any more scars do you?"

Arthur frowned and subconsciously moved a hand to cover a line of welts on his abdomen. Alfred glanced at the hand hiding the offending scar self-consciously.

"It's not that bad. Really. Scars are badass."

Arthur made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat but otherwise didn't respond and Alfred didn't mention it again.

Despite his confidence however, his hands were shaking, his stomach flipping uncomfortably. Belatedly the realization that the other man was disturbingly calm crossed his mind; maybe he really was as old as he said he was.

He hesitantly ran his fingers lightly over the wound, not sure where to begin.

"You'll need to press down harder than that." Arthur chuckled. He took Alfred's hand in his own and placed it roughly against the broken skin. He withheld the sharp intake of breath but Alfred noticed the twinge of pain in his eyes.

"If you say so." Alfred murmured and letting his mind clear felt his fingers remember a task he couldn't recall ever performing before.

They glided over the wound, disinfectant bringing a cruel sting to the jagged edges. The needle was threaded and run through seven times in quick succession never wavering. The bandages were wrapped tightly and smoothly around the waist and tied off with a neat knot.

"You always were good at patch jobs." Arthur said, smiling as he handed over a cup of tea, a while later. "You were always my first choice if I got hurt."

Alfred stared straight ahead; Arthur's eyes had acquired a faraway look and suddenly he felt himself fill with jealousy. He couldn't know the memories that Arthur was recalling. What would he see if he could? What would he feel?

"I can't believe I did that…" He muttered staring at his hands, having shaken himself from his thoughts. They'd long been washed but he couldn't stop seeing the blood covering his fingers.

* * *

><p>It was a dark night and Alfred lay staring out the window into the sky. It was covered in stars and seemed to feel warm while blowing a cool breeze over him. Turning he pulled the blanket farther up his body, tucking it under his chin. It had been hours and still he couldn't sleep.<p>

No one ever talks about it but night is the time when you can't accept things. Small inconveniences, worries, and confusion sneak up on your mind and refuse to let it rest, refuse to let it retreat to a corner and hide in denial and lies and false bravado.

Sighing he raised his hands above his head and watched the moonlight play across his fingers. What was going to become of him? He was completely lost, completely without his memories, sleeping in the house of a self-mutilating nut job. What if his life never returned to him? Should he just become someone else and start over? What would happen if his memories did come back? Would he no longer be the person he was now?

A small creak broke his abstraction and brought his attention to the door. Standing in the doorway, framed by the soft glow of candles, was Arthur.

Not to mention his memories, what was he supposed to do with this strange, beautiful, pitiful creature he'd found himself in the care of he wondered nervously feeling the twirl of his stomach at the sight of the other man.

"You're still awake." Arthur murmured quietly.

"Well, yeah." Alfred said awkwardly. "Kinda hard to sleep after the day I've had."

Suddenly Arthur stepped forward, closing the door behind him and approached. His feet made soft, scuffing noises against the ancient mahogany floor. In his arms was a feather pillow.

"May I stay in here tonight?" He asked, stopping next to the bed and waiting expectantly. When Alfred just stared at him he added, "I figured you'd be feeling a tad uncomfortable and sometimes company can be relaxing…".

"Yeah, yeah I'd like that." Alfred replied assuredly. "I was feeling kind of lonely." He raised the sheets and slid to the right to allow room for another person. He blinked quickly a couple times attempting to ignore the fizzy feeling in his chest.

Arthur hesitated only a moment before lying down next to him. "This was your room when you were little." He said suddenly. "You probably don't remember."

"Nah, didn't have a clue." Alfred muttered, turning away. He glanced over his shoulder a moment later and noticed the hurt look on Arthur's face as he stared at the canopy of the bed. "But… I'm sure I'll remember eventually." He said trying to comfort the distraught man at his side.

"That's what I'm worried about." Arthur whispered closing his eyes.

"What do you mean?" Alfred asked quickly but Arthur had already fallen asleep, his breath coming in shallow, slow dips.

Alfred propped himself up on his elbow and leaned over Arthur, studying him. He really was quite attractive when you got right down to it. A strong, thin jaw, accented by a sharp nose and powerful green eyes that just seemed to suck you in; those eyes were currently closed in sleep but In their place were long delicate eyelashes that swept majestically across pale cheeks. Beneath the tent of the blanket Alfred could see his figure, thin and subtle with an air of strength surrounding it.

One arm was resting overtop the blanket and Alfred gently slid the sleeve up to study the scars darting here and there across the used skin. They had looked angry and hurtful but in the moonlight they seemed to glow gently begging to be touched. Alfred found himself reaching out without thinking to run his fingers along the paths they cut.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked quietly, startling Alfred who was caught red-handed only a few centimeters from his arm.

"I was… I dunno actually." He shrugged and looked up to meet the emerald eyes sparkling out of the dark.

"They're not something to admire." Arthur said solemnly.

"I only-"

"You have them too." Alfred blinked at the twist and lurch in the words caused by pain and regret. "I've been thinking…" Arthur trailed off.

"Yeah?"

"I've been thinking maybe it would be better if you didn't remember." He whispered, his overwhelming eyes darting away.

"Why wouldn't you want me to remember?" Alfred asked desperately and a little angrily, sitting up and staring down. "I thought I was special to you or whatever. Why don't you want me to remember who I am?

"Because who you are is hurt. Because who you are has too much asked of him and you shouldn't have to deal with that. Because who you are knows who gave him all those scars." Arthur murmured breathlessly, that lurching, bottomless feeling still lacing his voice.

"Knows who gave me these scars?" Alfred questioned confused.

"Yes. He knows." In the dark, the green of his eyes suddenly seemed to take on a feverish glow, a brightness that not even the darkest of days could stifle; a light fueled by centuries of pain, love, hate, and strength.

"I think I know too." Alfred said slowly.

Arthur bit his lip and looked away. His hand came up once again to cover the scar that was now exposed by the pulled back blanket. As the seconds passed his fingers began to pick at the slightly raised line running from the top left to the bottom right of his chest.

"Did I do that?" Alfred asked nodding towards the concealing hand.

For a moment it seemed like he wouldn't answer but finally he looked up and smiled sardonically. "Yes, you did this…" He seemed to think a moment before continuing, "But so did I."

"What-?"

"This was the revolution." Arthur said, cutting him off and pointing to the thin line. "I'm partly responsible for it. I know that… now. I suppose that's what you've been trying to tell me all these years."

Alfred leaned back against the headboard, ignoring the displeased groan it made, and tried to remember when the revolution was.

"It was ended in 1781; at least for the most part. If you wanted to get technical the Treaty of Paris was signed in 1783." Arthur turned to stare up at the reclining figure that was Alfred. "That's when King George II signed it, relinquishing any further claim to American soil… But I count from 1781. Call it pride I guess. You weren't the Alfred I'd raised anymore after that day."

The wistful, fragile sound in his voice made Alfred terribly uncomfortable but the only thing he could think to do was apologize.

"No need." Arthur said raising a hand. He closed his eyes and sighed. "You were far more merciful than I deserved. For just a colony you were so strong; far stronger than I." He paused and a small smile curved his lips. "I was no match for you."

Alfred felt his stomach tighten with an unfamiliar emotion. Was it pride? Revelry? Suddenly he saw a huge, ornately decorated room. Gold tapestries hung from the walls glowing in the light thrown from a hundred candles. Windows, high and clear were placed evenly along every wall revealing a lush garden of reds, greens, golden yellows, and maroons. The breeze rattled the windows and left a chill in the room. The linear structure of every decoration in the room pointed towards the back to a single chair.

Sitting in the dazzling, glittering chair was who could only be described as a king such were his robes and posture. In his bejeweled hands was a large piece of parchment. It shook with his trepidation, his jaw clenched in anger and mortification.

Alfred glanced down to find himself dressed in a muddy, torn uniform, its buttons tarnished and the golden cuffs dirty with the dust and blood from the battle field. The collar itched terribly against the bottom of his ear where it rose up, too large for a teenager. In his hands was a battered cavalry officer's saber. The cold wind was blowing through the uniform straight to his skin and chilling him to the bone, but he felt nothing save a fierce, burning passion; a passion for his accomplishments, a pride that threatened to claw its way out his chest and run haphazardly around the room setting fire to everything it touched.

A quick look up revealed an equally crippled Arthur standing just to the right of the throne. Blood dripped down his face and arm to splatter against the collar of his coat and onto the floor at his feet. One arm was curled, clutching the other to his side.

Alfred strode forward never taking his eyes off the bedraggled figure swaying in anguish across the room. As he drew closer he could make out the sparkling forest of his eyes. They shone with the reflection of the light in the unshed tears of a prideful, fearsome being; a mystical creature meant for conquest who inexplicably found itself at the mercy of another.

Just one more step and he would be close enough to delve directly into those pools of stalwart mystery.

"Arthur-"

"Yes?"

Alfred's eyes snapped open and he found himself gazing into those very eyes, now filled with concern.

"Are you alright? Did you fall asleep?"

"I- Uh, I-" Alfred blinked and rubbed his eyes. What had that been?

Arthur's face contorted in worry and abruptly Alfred became aware of their positions. He, leaned against the headboard, chest bare, with Arthur leaning over him, so close and correspondingly shirtless. He felt his face flush which only worsened when Arthur placed the back of a cool hand to his forehead.

"Do you have a fever? You look awfully uncomfortable."

"I'm fine." He said quickly and turned over, facing away. "Just tired."

"Well you should get some sleep then." Arthur said doubtfully. "Goodnight then."

Only when Arthur's breathing had slowed and softened did Alfred relax and allow his thoughts to wander. What was he thinking getting turned on by a guy? He wasn't gay and he couldn't imagine America being. But… Looking over at the quiet figure bathed in moonlight, having glimpsed the fiery temper and warm kindness those eyes hid he could see the futility of trying to not love this soul.

He sighed; it was going to be a long night regardless of the company.

**A/N: If anyone wants to know, I put Alfred in a brigadier generals uniform. He would be high up but I don't get the feeling he'd want to be in charge of everything… ^^**


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